


The Fear Of Being Afraid

by 221blackandwhitestripes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Honey, Implied Anxiety, Love Confessions, M/M, Mark of Cain, Mark of Cain Cure, Mis-use of Castiel's wings, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 05:31:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12928533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221blackandwhitestripes/pseuds/221blackandwhitestripes
Summary: Dean isn't a demon anymore, but he is far from cured.





	The Fear Of Being Afraid

**Author's Note:**

> Heya, just a trigger warning for implied anxiety disorder and Castiel having wings when he shouldn't. It

Dean wasn’t a demon anymore, but he was far from cured. He was still a mess, pulling his family down with him as he slipped further into the pit below him.

And didn’t that just blow, because in the end, it was all his fault. He was the one who let himself be lured into trap the mark had set for him. 

Feeling it pulsing on his arm, sometimes he thought that it knew him, that it saw how weak he’d become. And that scared him most of all, to have his weaknesses laid bare and have no control over it. Dean needed control, he just did. He wasn’t ready to admit just how damned scared he really was.

His every moment was filled with constant cravings; of blood, of death, they came hand in hand by now. Destruction followed him after every hunt, a constant beating on his back to _please, just make it stop_. He was angrier than ever, at Sam, at Cas, but no one more than himself for going ahead and screwing everything up all over again.

Dean was stuck on the wrong side of a trap door, looking up at the sky and hoping someone would just come and save him, but knowing that no one ever would. There was no way to stop the cycle of loathing, craving, and killing anymore. It infected his body like a terrible virus, spreading through his body and into his research, his drinking, every hunt, his very dreams. Nightmares formed beneath his eyelids every night, his fears awakening and morphing into monsters, howling at the moon. He would watch himself do the unthinkable, hands squeezing the life out of blurred faced victims. Then he’d wake up and do it for real.

He dreamed of the blade with his hands wrapped around it, driving it again and again into a body that was long since dead. Two days later he was driving the same blade into the same body, except this time it was _real_. 

He stared at the blood covering his hands, and he felt a familiar clench of fear as the monsters in his dreams morphed into his hellish reality. Dean had been to hell, had a knife carving out his soul again and again, until the day he turned around and did it himself. He was doing it again, carving out people’s life and carving out his own soul along with it.

_The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself._

His heart was thumping, thumping, thumping. Tears pinched the corners of his eyes, his chest heaved with every breath in and out, in and out and it was too much, _too much, **too much**_ , but at the same time, not enough. His hands clammy, he let himself fall to his knees, staring at the blade as he slowly let his fingers unclench from the handle. He watched it land, hearing the resulting _thump_ and feeling it reverberate through his soul as he let out a shaky breath.

But the worst thing was, Dean belatedly realized, he was the monster now.

There was a voice. Someone was saying something, his name? Dean looked up and yes, it was Sam, and he was talking in wavering tones, but it was like Dean was surrounded by water and someone was calling from the surface, the water distorting their words until they weren’t words anymore, just pockets of sound ringing in Dean’s ears with no meaning.

Later, Dean wouldn’t remember how he got out of there, whether Sam had forced him to move or if Cas had showed up in time to zap him away, but all he knew was that he was sitting on some crappy motel bed, staring at Sam and Cas, knowing what he had to ask. It was a very old, dreaded question. The words screamed through his mind, pushing against his tongue, hammering on his skull, vibrating through his bones. 

_“Help me! Help me! Help me!”_ his body screamed out, but Dean couldn’t allow himself to open his mouth and let the words fall from his lips. How could he ask when his throat was dry and choked, his head hanging heavy, and his heart had been torn to shreds. His fingers were trembling and he could feel it coming on again, the clawing mixture of panic, dread and fear.

Dean stood up from the bed, pacing a few steps away and turning his back on the last two people who cared. He couldn’t be afraid, he couldn’t turn into the monster in the back of his mind. No, anything but that.

So he looked down at the mark, blazoned on his arm like the fiery curse it was, and pressed his finger over it. And, slowly, his fear became **rage**. He shouted at Sam, screamed at Cas, cursed their failures, blamed them for everything when they had done _nothing_. It was all he had left to do. It was awful and it left him broken, but there was nothing else left to do.

“What’s wrong with you? It’s like you _want_ to start a fight!” Sam shouted, and there was that fear again because Sam was right, too right. He wanted it, needed it, like an old addict craving a long missed fix. If death was his drug, what did that make him? So he grabbed the six pack from the shitty motel fridge and stormed outside and drank and drank and drank. With every burning swallow, the deeper the pit his gut dug. He had developed an emptiness that nothing but blood and chaos could fill. Dean had tried to drown his sorrows but instead he’d burnt everything else away.

Now, there was nothing else left.

The car ride back home was filled with a stony silence. The tension in the air crackled with feelings Dean couldn’t discern. He could feel both Sam and Cas’s eyes glued to him, even though they glanced away the moment he looked at them. Their joint gaze was an itch against his skin that grew worse each time he scratched.

By the time the grassy bank that surrounded the bunker appeared in the bright spots cast by the impala’s headlights, Dean had had enough. Opening the Impala’s door, he got out, then shut it with a satisfying slam. Opening up the bunker door, Dean let out a long breath, audibly hissing it through his teeth. When the door was unlocked, Dean went to storm straight to his room, but was stopped by a firm grip on his arm. He spun around, expecting Sam, but instead finding Cas. Deep blue eyes locked with his, and Dean felt that heady pull, a pull he’d felt long before the mark and everything it had brought, but nonetheless felt ten times stronger with the fury rushing through his veins. He needed Cas. But to need someone… Dean wasn't supposed to be weak like that. He was supposed to be strong.

“What Cas?” Dean snapped, determined to just leave and not deal with this shit for the next four hours of sleep he might get.

“It’s getting worse, Dean. Don’t let it go too far.” Cas looked pointedly at the mark, standing out a furious red in contrast to the creamy colour of his arm. Dean thought of his jet black eyes staring back in the mirror and how awfully good it felt to be that way, cursed to the bone. He hadn't cared about anything back then. What a reprieve that ha been.

“Look, Cas.” Dean said, stepping forward into Cas’s space, ignoring the screaming in his head that told him no, look away, turn around, run as fast as you can and don’t look back. Dean tightened his trembling fingers into a fist, concentrating on the bite of his nails into the skin of his palm as he continued.

“You’re not exactly the squeaky clean angel with a heart of gold you pretend to be. In fact, you’re more of a monumental fuck up.” The look of hurt that quickly washed over Cas’s face made something inside Dean curl up in a corner like a wounded animal, but Dean was determined to continue, no matter the cost. “You’re a freak! Every time you try to do anything good, things just get worse. It’s _your_ fault that Metatron was ruling heaven, it’s _your_ fault that almost every time we see a damned man with wings, they try to kill us, and it’s _your_ fault that I even became a demon in the first place!” 

Castiel’s face had taken on the same stony, closed off look that he’d worn so often when the two had first met. Dean’s insides were calling out to him to please, _stop!_ But Dean couldn’t stop, no matter how hard he tried, the words pounding out like a stampede. “Don’t you _ever_ think that you have _any_ right to advise me on anything. Me and my brother have seen a lot of shit, but we have never seen shittier than you. So go take your _opinions_ and _advice_ , shove them where the light doesn't go, and just fucking leave. It will hardly be the first time.”

Dean had finished, but he could still feel the fire rushing through his veins, screaming for blood and violence. But it all stopped in shock when Dean took in Cas’s face and saw a single tear rolling from one galaxy blue eye. Cas’s cold expression still remained, but that tear told Dean everything he needed to know. In one strong rush, all the anger, the waterfalls of fury, left Dean’s body. He had fucked up. He didn’t want Cas to leave, all he ever wanted was for him to stay. And all he could do was stand there, like a fool, watching the man he loved _cry_.

“Cas!” Dean gasped. Cas’s eyes narrowed, his fingers curled into fists as Dean watched helplessly. “Cas, wait!” But he was too late. With a flap of his wings, Cas was gone, leaving Dean covered in the slick slime of dread. What the hell had Dean done?

Dean buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes and trying to inhale some slow, deep breaths. When he dragged his hands down his face and uncovered his eyes, he was met with Sam standing a couple feet away. One glance at his face told Dean that Sam had heard everything, and that he was _not_ happy.

“Dean.” Sam said, his voice a mixture of gravelly irritation, watery sadness and just an edge of soft concern. Dean glared at him, trying to direct his sudden anger at the closest recipient. And Dean was angry. He was angry at himself, angry at his stupid fears, angry that he’d ever allowed himself to possess The Mark in the first place. He’d fucked up, and he needed Sam’s help. But because of this stupid fucking wall of fear, he couldn’t just open up his mouth and simply ask for it, no. _It’s just fucking help._ He shouted at himself. It didn’t seem to make a difference. 

Dean let out a long sigh and turned away from Sam’s face and that terrifying expression. He stepped through the door, took the steps two at a time, hitting the bottom with a thump as he jumped the last four steps before he was sprinting down the halls, reaching his room and slamming the door shut. His anger at himself was gathering around him like storm clouds. His hands were scrunched into fists and he was shaking like a leaf. His feet paced back and forth across the floor of his room, agitation wracking through his muscles.

Dean stopped in the middle of the room, facing the bedside table. Lying on the wooden surface, next to the plain, old lamp, was a baseball. Dean washed himself in the memory. He had been twelve years old and dad had left him and Sam in a motel while he went off on another hunt. He was back after a few days. He’d burst through the door wearing one of his rare smiles and Dean had instantly knew that it was one of those times. A rare and far between time when his father was in a good mood. 

They went into town and got pizza, before going to watch the tigers game that dad had bought tickets for. And when Wilkins had batted a home run and the ball had flown through the air towards them, it was merely instinct to lift his hand and catch it. Before he knew what’d happened, there was screaming from all around and Dean looked up to see his face on the big screen, his own expression of shock mirrored back at him. Dad had then turned to him, clapping him on shoulder and saying loudly above the crowd “Good job, son.”

“Good job, son.” Dean whispered now. His eyes wandered over the ball, taking in the neat stitching and the polished shine, reminding him of all the times he’d scrubbed the surface clean. Funny, after all the hunts, all the times he'd looked after Sammy, all the times Dean had been through the wringer for his old man, this was the time he complimented him. Over a fucking baseball.

Dean growled, deep and animalistic. He snatched the ball from it’s place and hurled it against the wall. Dean didn’t stop to see where it bounced. The lamp was next, followed by an empty beer can, an old leather shoe, a box of batteries left on his desk. Then it was his deodorant, his comb, the small bottle of cologne kept for special occasions, all smashing against the wall. He reached again, only for his fingers to stumble against the cool metal of a picture frame. He gently grabbed hold of it, slowly bringing it towards his face. There, in the photo, was four year-old Dean with his mother’s arms slung around him, not a care in the world and happy as can be.

“I’m sorry.” Dean whispered, softly placing the picture back on the desk. There was no anger left, no fear. Only a strange calmness that led Dean to walk out the door, grab a dustpan and brush, and calmly return to sweep up the mess of broken glass and plastic, removing the salvageable items and placing each back to their rightful spot. Dean then took all the rubbish and emptied it into the kitchen trashcan, letting the last threads of despair wash away with it. Dean was too tired to be angry after that. And, when he finally crawled into bed, it was with the image of his mother seared over his eyes and inside his heart.

Over the course of the next few weeks Dean didn’t see Cas at all. When he did finally come along on a case, he treated Dean like he was invisible, ignoring eye contact and any attempt Dean made to apologize for what he’d done. Dean was constantly on edge because of it. The effects of the mark were getting stronger. Every time he drove a knife through a body, pulled the trigger on his gun, lit a ghost aflame, it was like fire. It soared through his veins, shook his bones, changed him. 

Dean began to lose time. He’d walk into a vampire nest and wake up ten minutes later surrounded by blood and bodies. The worst bit was that Dean liked it. He liked the way it made adrenaline soar through his veins, liked the way his heart thumped quicker and quicker. Each kill left him on some kind of high, one he’d never found before. Dean had no idea how to stop what was happening to him and it was tearing him apart.

Dean couldn’t take it anymore, so one day, after a dinner of homemade burgers courtesy of the bunker’s kitchen and Dean’s growing skills, Dean quietly slipped into his room and started to pray.

“Cas, I know you don’t want to listen to me right now, but just suck it up for a minute and hear me out.” Dean took a deep breath. Of all the times he had let his fear control him, let it turn him into chaos, now was the time for Dean to control it. To use his fears to do something right for once. He was afraid of losing Cas. So he would use that fear to get him back.

“I’m sorry.” Dean forced the words to spill from his lips, and automatically felt his shoulders lighten with relief. He continued, “I never wanted any of this to happen. I can promise you, that I would never have said those things in my right mind. And sure, Cas, you’ve fucked up. But that’s what makes you different from the rest of those Angel dicks. You own it. You know when you’ve done bad and you do everything to make it better. The truth is that nothing that has happened is your fault. And I am a complete asshole for saying that it was. Just… Cas,” Dean looked up at the ceiling. It was time to be real.

“I need you.”

There was the sudden sound of wings flapping, and Dean got the familiar prickle on the back of his neck that appeared whenever Cas was near. Dean turned his head to see Cas standing there, shoulders stiff like he was about to take flight at any moment. 

“Hey, Cas.” Dean choked out.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas replied, inclining his head. His eyes looked slightly nervous and his left hand was fiddling with the hem of his trench coat. A long silence stretched out between them. Dean tried to breathe deeply as he worked up the nerve to speak.

Gathering shreds of courage, he asked, “Are you gonna say something?” Desperation clung to his voice the way he wanted to cling onto the Angel in front of him. Cas sighed. 

“What do you want me to say?” He asked, his clear blue eyes burning holes into Dean’s skull. Dean felt for a second like he had been standing over a trapdoor that had suddenly swung open, leaving him falling with no foot holds to grab.

“I don’t know.” Dean said softly. “Maybe you could just tell me if… If I could ever be forgiven for all the shit I’ve dragged you through.” Dean tried to keep his tone light but by Cas’s face, he’d failed miserably.

“Dean.” Cas said gently, stepping forward and resting his hand on Dean’s shoulder, a gesture reminiscent of the handprint that once resided there. “You are already forgiven.” Cas said, staring straight into Dean’s eyes. Dean recoiled a bit in shock. How could he be forgiven already? 

Dean flashed back to when he was standing in that old barn, sigils covering the walls, blown light bulbs and empty bullet casings littering the floor. Cas had looked him in the eye and said _You don’t think you deserve to be saved._ Dean recalled how it had felt to hear the truth said aloud for once. But Cas had still saved him. And now he’d forgiven him.

“Cas...” Dean ventured. “I will never deserve you, but I’ll try my best to repay you.” And maybe that was a bit too close to telling Cas the truth of what he felt. But perhaps, just this once, that would be fine.

Cas smiled. “That’s okay.” He said. "You've already repayed me quite enough." Dean felt something prickle through the air, a kind of tension he couldn’t quite place. It broke suddenly when Cas turned away and, with a whispered a goodbye, disappeared. Only the sound of flapping wings was left in his wake.

Things weren’t exactly fantastic after that, the mark’s effects were still going strong, but now he didn’t have the heavy weight of Cas’s silence pressing on his chest. Dean didn’t need to hold himself back anymore, either. He could casually sling his arm around Cas’s shoulders or bump his knees against Cas’s without an ounce of fear, only a pleasant feeling of warmth and excitement sliding through his chest. Sam kept giving them funny looks and cheeky grins but Dean ignored them in favour of counting all the different shades of blue in Cas’s eyes, forever noticing hints of azure, cobalt and cerulean.

“What’s this?” Cas asked one day after Dean had presented him with a small package wrapped carefully in brown paper with a straw string bow. Cas carefully unwrapped it, slowly uncovering a very heavy jar that smelled _fantastic_. 

“It’s Manuka honey. From New Zealand. ‘Supposed to be the best in the world. And it’s good for you too, healing properties and stuff. No that you need it."Dean cleared his throat, then continued. "It took awhile to get here but… it’s here now so...” Dean grinned nervously, nodding towards the jar and rubbing his hands together.

“Dean, you don’t need to give me anything. I’m not mad at you any more.” Cas said softly, cocking his head in his usual endearing way.

“I know. I just thought you might like it.” Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck. Sam snorted loudly from where he was reading a book on the other side of the room. Dean scowled at him, turning back to Cas with a brilliant smile.

“Well, in that case, I love it.” Cas said in answer to Dean. “Thank you very much.” Cas’s grin was infectious and Dean matched it with an equally bright one of his own.

It was layers of these memories Dean had created that became the string that tied Dean together. His anger was controlled by the sound of Cas’s surprised laughter, his fear kept in check by seas of blue contained in his eyes, his hand restrained from shaking by the weight of Cas’s own hand on his shoulder. He was held together by everything Cas ever was.

And sure, there were whispered conversations between Cas and Sam, shared knowing glances, but Dean could trust them as long as Cas kept smiling his shy little smile, kept wearing awful tan coats and kept driving his horrendous continental. That’s what made Dean decide, what gave Dean the strength to do the impossible: Because it was Cas.

“Hey, Cas. Where are you?” Dean’s hand shook as it held the phone, but it was with a new, good kind of fear, one Dean wouldn’t mind getting used to.

“E 3rd street, Liberal, Kansas.” Cas voice crackled over the phone speaker. “But, Dean, you don’t have to-”

“On my way.” Dean hung up, grabbing his keys. He had to do this now, or he might not do it at all. Dean was just lucky that Liberal was within the state, better than driving halfway across the country to see Cas. But, he supposed, he would have done it anyway. 

Time seemed to pass differently in this strange new world Dean had built around him. His fingers constantly drummed against the steering wheel, he sang along to every song that played. Everything felt fresher, happier. He felt better than he had in months. Maybe he had some problems, but he and Cas could fix them together.

Dean reached the location just as the sun began to lower in the sky. He pulled up behind a shady looking concrete building. Why Cas was hanging out here, Dean had no idea. He parked the car beside it anyway, looking for any sign of his feathered friend. Soon, Cas appeared out of a side door, quickly spotting him and walking over. Dean got out of the car, smiling a little in his nervousness.

“Hey, Cas.” He greeted.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas looked over his shoulder hurriedly before setting his blue eyes on Dean. God, Dean could melt in those eyes. The sight of them seemed to strengthen his resolve, pushing him further into the arms of the unknown. He had to do this, no matter what happened. “Uh, Dean I’m really sorry, but it would be best if you tell me what you need quickly.”

“I just-” Dean took a deep breath. “I need to talk to you.”

“Why?” Cas asked, furrowing his brow.

“I just need to tell you something.” Dean insisted.

“Okay.” Cas nodded. “Go ahead.” _I have to do this, I have to do this, I have to do this,_ Dean repeated in his head. His legs were shaky, his stomach had flipped and his head was spinning, but he had to do this.

“Cas, I… I love you.” Dean swallowed thickly, glancing up into Cas’s bugged eyes. He’d actually done it, he’d actually said it. “I - I just thought you should know, considering the way things are heading, and the mark of Cain and everything. What I’m trying to say is…

“Dean.’ Castiel cut through him. “I understand.”

“You do?” Dean asked with a hopeful yet grateful smile.

“Of course.” Cas smiled shyly, “I… Me too. I lov-”

“Cas!” Dean and Cas both turned their gaze to the panicked voice. Was that… Sam’s voice? “Cas, you gotta help me. I don’t know what Rowena said, but Charlie has just gone batshit crazy. I just need you to help me separate them before someone get’s killed. What are you-” Sam finally seemed to notice Dean as he rushed forward, eyeing him with both shock and fear.

Dean turned to Cas, whose face had gone from so beautifully happy to so dangerously crestfallen. He looked up at Dean, a weariness in his eyes, and Dean just knew that whatever he and Sam had done was _not_ good. Dean just allowed himself a second to acknowledge how everything had been so right for one glorious moment. Now he was back in disaster land. 

_See, this is why you can’t have nice things,_ A voice whispered in his mind.

“Dean… We just-” Cas started to explain but Dean just shook his head. He turned to Sam.

“Go.” He instructed sharply.

“Rowena’s translating The Book of the Damned. We need Charlie to translate it.” Quick and painful, the way the two of them have always liked it. “Uh, don’t worry, Cas, I think I can handle this, you two just…” Sam trailed off, turning and walking away quickly before disappearing through the door.

Silence hung in the air, but Dean knew the instant that Cas decided to break it.

“Look, Dean-”

_“Don’t.”_ Dean growled.

“But, Dean we had to, We just had to. You needed to be saved. That’s what we do, all I can do, is save you.” Cas insisted.

“ **I DIDN’T ASK YOU TO!!!** ” Dean exploded at him, his voice carrying across the empty roads, loud in the stillness of an abandoned suburb. Cas shrank back, looking even smaller although both knew he was worth ten of Dean in his power. Dean shook his head, blowing out a long breath before he continued softly. “ _I didn’t ask you to._ I didn’t want any of this.” Dean held his arms out, shaking his head.

“Dean. Dean!” Castiel cupped his face, directing Dean’s gaze to his own deep blue eyes. “You deserve to be saved.” In a moment, Dean was back again in that old farmhouse, Cas’s curious eyes boring holes into his skull as he stripped Dean down with honest and aching truths. But it was different this time. Then, he’d just been Castiel, Angel of The Lord. Now he was Cas, his best friend, his practical soulmate, equally his protector and his charge.

Dean turned away, barely containing all the fear and hope and anger roiling in his stomach, writhing like a thousand snakes. And then it was suddenly easy. Sure, he was afraid, but what was fear compared to everything else? 

He would not be a slave to fear. 

“C-Cas. I’m afraid.” Dean’s hands were shaking and he had to look at the ground, he couldn’t look up and see the pity that was sure to be etched in Cas’s bright blue eyes as he forced out his next words. “H-Help me. Please.” The shaking in his hand suddenly travelled along his whole body until he was rattling down to his bones. His right arm was set alight, flames curling up and out until his whole body was on fire. He couldn’t help letting out a low cry of pain, the singeing heat burning through his skin. Dean’s eyes squeezed shut, fingernails digging into the soft skin of his palm as he strained to keep from screaming.

“Dean?” Cas cried in terror. Dean couldn’t respond. He distantly felt Cas’s hand on his shoulder and knew that they’d moved to somewhere in the bunker, his stomach twisting from the flight. Dean curled onto the hard, stone floor, body convulsing in pain. Dean barely heard Cas’s voice, his words only just piercing through the veil of pain and fire. 

“Dean? Dean! Listen to me! Just… It’s okay to be afraid. Just… Don’t let it stop you from being who you are.

Out of nowhere, Cas’s hands were on his shoulders, and it was soothing as ice. His cool grace flowed through Dean. It whispered across his skin, chasing away the flames like a cool breeze. Dean couldn’t help it when a smile washed over his face. He felt free.

“Cas.” He breathed. “What’s it called when you’re afraid, but you’re stronger than fear?”

“Dean,” Cas smiled. “You’re brave.”

Dean let out a hysterical giggle, a giggle that grew into a full-bellied laugh. He felt light as air, like he could do anything. _Anything_. Dean’s eyes slid back towards Cas, taking in everything, every last detail of the man he loved. Determined all of a sudden, Dean reached up with his right hand, lacing his fingers in the short hair at the back of Cas’s head. Slowly, checking first to see if this was right, Dean guided Cas’s head forward until there was barely a millimeter between them. 

Taking a deep breath, Dean pushed himself all the way, allowing his mouth to meet Cas’s for one brief, exquisite moment before gently backing away again. A soft gasp escaped Cas when they broke apart, his chest heaving hard and brushing against Dean’s own. Cas’s eyes drifted down before snapping back up to Dean’s in wonder.

“Dean.” He breathed.

“I know.” Dean replied with a smile.

“No, Dean.” Cas gestured at Dean’s arm urgently. Dean glanced down, gasping too. His arm was bare. No mark, not even a smudge of red, nothing.

“We did it.” Dean marveled. Cas smiled his soft, gentle smile. It ignited something sweet inside Dean’s chest and he couldn’t help leaning forward to press their lips together once more. Dean let out a small sound of surprise when he felt Cas’s hand settle on the back of his neck and gently angle his head to deepen the kiss. Cas made a pleased humming noise in return before Dean felt him gently push his tongue against his lips, darting through the seam quickly before slowly pulling out. Dean opened his jaw wider, using his own tongue to coax Cas’s back into his mouth. Cas’s tongue felt so soft and slick against his own, it was addictive.

Dean let himself melt into the kiss, his right arm dropping and left one rising so they were both slung around Cas’s neck. Dean felt Cas smile against his lips and decided to use the opportunity to slip his own tongue into Cas’s mouth. When Dean allowed just the tip of the muscle to graze the roof of Cas’s mouth, he felt Cas give a full body shiver and bring his arms firmly around Dean’s waist, squeezing tight.

Dean was on the verge of some kind a euphoria when he felt Cas’s lips close over his tongue and _suck_. Pure lava flowed straight through Dean, settling right below his stomach, and yes, his pants were definitely tighter. Suddenly, Dean needed more, needed to be closer, needed so badly he felt like he was about to explode. Dean shuffled closer to Cas, maintaining the kiss as he carefully climbed into Cas’s lap and _yes_ , contact. Dean couldn’t help the full bellied moan that escaped his throat as he slowly rocked his hips against Cas’s.

“Dean.” Cas breathed, pulling away to fill his lungs with enough air to speak, but he stayed close enough that Dean felt their noses brush together with each breath.

“Yeah?” Dean managed. God, Cas’s body just felt so perfect against his own, so damn good. Dean rocked his hips again, stirring a shattered breath through his teeth as he gritted them in pleasure. There was a rush of wind and the sound of wings flapping. Suddenly, Dean was on his bed, sprawled out on his back, completely naked. Maybe he should’ve been annoyed after travelling like that twice in one day, but how could he be when he and Cas were _finally on a bed._

“ _Fuck_ , Cas.” He breathed as Cas rocked against him once more.

“If you like.” Cas offered in his growling voice, and wasn’t that just hot? Dean pulled Cas down for another kiss, using it as a distraction as he wrapped his hand around both of their erections, squeezing lightly. Cas gaped against his lips, rocking forward into Dean’s fist, and that added bit of friction was just fucking perfect.

Dean’s other hand explored the planes of Castiel’s back, silently marveling at the taut muscles Cas had been concealing under his trench coat for years. Cas seemed a little distracted as he huffed broken off sounds into Dean’s ear with every thrust, so Dean grinned and turned them over, leaving Cas on his back staring up at him in surprise.

“I want to explore you,” Dean whispered, “Slowly.” Cas nodded eagerly. Dean smiled and began to kiss down Cas’s neck, sucking softly at the skin there, enjoying Cas’s soft sighs and canting hips. He ran his hand over Cas’s front, enjoying the firm muscles under his skin. Cas was built like a fucking Greek God, chiseled to perfection. 

Dean kissed Cas’s abs teasingly, smirking up at him before he ventured lower. He planted kisses on his hips and thighs, thick and strong the way he liked them. He fitted his hands underneath to raise Cas’s legs onto his shoulders, smiling wickedly before he licked a hot trail up Cas’s thigh. Cas moaned lowly, a hand reaching down to fist in Dean’s hair, sending a spike of arousal down his spine.

Dean was done playing. He swooped down on Cas like a hawk, taking him into his mouth fully. Then he slowly pulled off, grazing his tongue against Cas’s tightened skin. Cas groaned and arched his hips up, pushing into Dean’s mouth. Dean definitely needed to do this more often. The weight of Cas’s cock felt right on his tongue, the taste of him sending heat down his spine.

Dean teased Cas with just the tip of his tongue, swiping tiny circles up and down Cas’s shaft. He sucked Cas back into his mouth, moaning as Cas stretched his cheeks open.

“Fuck, Dean.” Cas groaned and Dean looked up through his eyelashes, smiling around his mouthful. Dean blinked and his position had changed, Cas above him on the bed, pressing his hips into Dean’s. Cas and Dean’s cocks aligned, sliding together.

Dean’s eyes squeezed shut in pleasure before he forced them open, taking in the sight of Cas above him, head thrown back as he moaned Dean’s name. The hand Cas didn’t have wrapped around their cocks weaved its fingers between Dean’s own with a tight grasp.

“Cas,” Dean gasped, suddenly near tears as pleasure continued to build low inside his gut. 

“Let go, Dean. I’ve got you.” Cas whispered gently, kissing Dean sweetly. Dean shuddered through his release, arching up into Cas’s embrace. Little gasps and soft whines escaped his mouth as he rocked, barely noticing as Cas gasped out his own release above him.

His eyes fluttering open, Dean focused on Cas’s intense gaze, pinning Dean down with its intensity. Dean brushed his hands up and down Cas’s back as he finished, feeling every shutter of breath, every twitch, against his hands.

Finally, Cas collapsed on top of him, nuzzling into Dean’s clavicle and licking at the few drops of sweat pooled there before moving so most his weight rested beside Dean rather than on top of him. Dean kissed Cas’s mussed hair, smiling happily. It felt so right, lying here with Cas, pressed together so closely. He and Cas were meant to be this way, he was sure of it. Dean didn’t care about God’s plan, or what anyone thought. This was meant to be, because it made Dean truly happy. If anyone wanted to object, then they could just fuck off.

“I love you, Dean.” Cas whispered, his breath tickling the skin beneath his chin.

“I love you, too, Cas.” Dean whispered, enveloping Cas in his eyes.

Dean wasn’t perfect, he never had been. But he had an angel on his side. Wasn’t that enough?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :-)


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